


Purgatory

by emjam



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Allusions to Canonical Suicide, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Except I'm Not Religious, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Light Angst, Marius and Cosette are mentioned once, Post-Canon, Purgatory, Religious Content, Valjean Goes to Heaven, Valjean Insists on Being Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: "Is this where he lands? Not the violent damnation of Hell or the purity of Heaven, but a dark blur in which only he resides in solitude?"Javert wakes up somewhere strange after that fateful June night.





	Purgatory

A deep darkness surrounds Javert.

It is hard to tell how the smear of black is different than the unconsciousness he rose out of. Or - _nonexistence_ would be a closer word. Perhaps the only difference is that now he can perceive the dark around him.

And with what senses? There is no mouth guiding air to battered lungs within him, even to cough up river water. Either his hands are hidden or he has none. No eyes tell him about the absence of light. He merely absorbs it, almost like he is breathing it in.

Well. He is not truly breathing in anything right now.

For a silly moment he wonders if his eyes are simply closed, or if maybe he is asleep. Perhaps he will wake and be greeted by the devil’s gnarled visage, if such a concept as Hell truly exists. Or perhaps it is as it feels, and he is _already_ awake.

Awake or not, he is at the moment lucid, and so he wills himself forward. It is sluggish, and even though he can feel the ghosts of waterlogged limbs struggling to propel him, there is no evidence that they exist any longer.

A wry part of his mind finds the idea a tad dramatic, perhaps even ostentatious. Why bog down his incorporeal form with the problems of his corporeal one, other than to prove a point that does not need to be proven? He knows what he did. He knows why and how. He has no need for eyes or a mouth or legs anymore, but the authority governing this plane is making him feel them as if he needs a reminder.

Perhaps he is a prisoner, and the phantom feelings are his chains, weights on his nonexistent wrists and ankles to keep him in line. To keep him conscious of his failure.

The black sweeps by him for a timeless interval. There is no possible way to seek a path; all directions are turbulent night.

Is this where he lands? Not the violent damnation of Hell or the purity of Heaven, but a dark blur in which only he resides in solitude? It is… unexpected. To be fair, he was never religious, choosing work as his compass instead and paying dearly for it; as a consequence, church never had a presence in his life, and he does not have the knowledge to discern his situation further, to figure out if this place he is in has a name. If it were a dream, he would have woken up by now, surely. And if by some unholy trick he remains living, there is no substance he can think of that could so completely remove his perception of his own body and simplify it to a mere semblance of movement.

A break in the black quiets his thoughts to a back-room murmur. The only difference is a lighter shade of gray, but it is a change in this cavernous vacuum, and thus welcome. The further he moves, the more varied and lighter the values of his surroundings become. He drifts along for long enough, following the grays like some meandering path, until the grayscale spills into shapes of foliage. In Paris he would have never looked twice at a simple tree or bush, but now he examines it thoroughly as the first thing he’s truly “seen” here. The light gray leaves and darker shadows speak of charcoal drawings but are as real as colorless life can be. He looks over the waxy sheen of a leaf. It has never felt so invigorating to witness average greenery.

Maybe he does have eyes, he thinks.

But wait. More is ahead.

Past the broken forest is a plain and the remains of a wide dirt path. He follows it for what might have felt like days if days meant anything here. Even though it is nothing he appreciated in life, he now wishes the sky were not so gray.

A change happens again. The monotone world spills accordingly into bursting color.

He feels the distinct and peculiar sensation of needing to blink to block the amount of information flooding his senses, all the while having no way to do so. He is forced to take it all in, the muddied colors and new expanse of sky. Everything looks drab despite the lack of clouds. It is as if it is storming without rain, or overcast without anything to block out the Sun.

Turning upwards, evidence suggests that there is no ball in the sky keeping warmth and light over all.

Javert would huff if he had vocal cords, but as things are, everything is quite detached at the moment. He itches for a pinch of snuff as he passes the newly-colored bushes and trees, and wonders what could have possibly occurred after his body smashed against the destructive underbed of the Seine. It would be very unlikely that he had survived with the state of the water that night. It had gone to plan, surely. So what is all this? Though again, he cannot complain, not with what he has done. Justice was not truly just on Earth. Perhaps it is truly just here, and he is merely waiting for punishment.

Plains stretch for many, many meters ahead. There is the possibility that this itself is his punishment. Apt; boredom never sat well with him.

Shuffling through long lengths of tall grasses is somehow made easier by the not-passage of time. There is no Sun to remind him of time that trickles away; the natural Earth around him never darkens, always remaining slightly shadowed but nevertheless functioning and tangible. Very tangible, which Javert notes as he watches swaths of plant growth push away from his form even when he cannot see his leg approximations pushing. A hint of vertigo of some sort steals him at that, but only for a moment. In any case, he cannot see how long it has been since he started this possibly meaningless trek, and that is a blessing whether there is a God or not.

It is unknown eons before he exits a hundreth empty meadow and is spit out in front of a small village home. It is simple, with hardly a room encased in its walls from the look of it, and only one window and door.

Javert is suddenly duly aware of the lack of a breeze in this place. Smell also escapes him, and sound.

Everything is still and silent. He had no lack of will to do what was necessary back on Earth, but in this new ghostly place, he does not dare to knock on the home’s plain wood door.

It opens of its own accord. Javert stops moving, instinctively wishing for something he could hide his presence with. Then, he remembers that he cannot be seen.

Out steps a familiar figure, one which haunted Javert in his last hours of life.

Jean Valjean walks up to Javert silently - he could somehow see Javert, of course he could - and reaches out. Who knows what the man plans to do? Javert merely watches as the hand approaches his shoulder. He does not stop him because his authority has been renounced, and even if it were not, he is shocked to the core at this man that seems to doggedly follow him.

Valjean is clean, not covered in sewer muck, not tired or pleading. His face is free of worrisome wrinkles and lines.

When Valjean’s fingers meet Javert’s form, it takes visual shape. He looks down to find hands again.

A bird chirps somewhere nearby. Sound?

“I knew you would make it,” Valjean says.

Despite Javert’s realizations mere hours before death - or, maybe because of them, and the weight that they held - Javert is suddenly full of dread. He reaches a solid hand up to his own head. He has no hat. He reflexively slips his hand into one of the large pockets of his now-visible greatcoat, and recoils in shock. The coat is damp.

“Am I dead?” are the first words that Javert can manage. He realizes that he has a mouth once more.

Valjean’s patient smile tightens, but not in discomfort. “Yes.”

A breeze now brushes Javert’s cheeks, making him shiver. He did not realize his whiskers and hair were wet.

“I see.” A bird chirps again somewhere. The ground is solid beneath Javert’s new feet. Something is off. This does not make sense. Javert sets his piercing gaze on the man that killed him. “If that is true, then why are you in this place?”

Valjean’s pleasant demeanor does not change. “You know why.”

The meaning rushes over him all at once. The fool must be dead!

“No.” Javert shakes his head in disbelief. “How could you die a mere day after I let you go?” He is almost angry. What is God doing up there?

Valjean looks down with an almost sheepish smile, as if he were about to say, “it’s an odd story, really.” What he truly says, though, is, “Inspector Javert, it has been over a year now.”

It has been over a year. Javert places a few fingers over his mouth.

Valjean continues. “It took some time for you to find your way here, but that is just the way things are at times. While you were struggling, they were also having trouble up there, trying to decide what to do with you.”

“I did not expect that to be a question.” Would it not be obvious where he belongs! If this is not Hell, Javert fears there must be a mistake in the paperwork.

“Well, when you died, you had done much wrong, yes; you did not worship, that is correct also. But not with cruel intent on either accounts, and you showed promising signs of a better path before you snuffed your own chances.” Valjean looks somber, and Javert wonders why. “But, I knew the choice that they would make.”

“Which is?” Punishment should be his fate, and only more fitting that Valjean bring him to it. It is true justice after all, he decides; the wronged brings his tormentor to damnation. For a moment, all falls perfectly together. He understands now.

“Heaven, my good friend.” And Valjean pats his shoulder amicably.

Javert does not understand.

“Why? How did they come up with that?”

Valjean shrugs. “I suppose it is hard to understand at first. You are an interesting case. Many of your coworkers were cruel out of malice. You were cruel out of ignorance. More yet, you realized it in the end.”

“How do you know such things?”

“I will admit, I inquired about you when I first arrived in Heaven. I told them you did not deserve to die, and wondered what became of you.” He fiddles with his hands. “They wondered as well, and so it turned out that you were putting some stress on their… system, so to speak. I put in a good word for you.”

“As if you were recommending me for a position,” Javert scoffs.

“No, no. It is more serious than that.” Valjean looks off past Javert at the average sky, head held high. Javert has never seen him so at ease. He was expecting Valjean to look down at his feet, as he had often seen him even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, still trying to hide in plain sight. “But I believe in advocacy for that who cannot advocate for himself.” Valjean smiles again, his face bare of tension. “It is why I can say I am here today to collect you.”

“Collect me?”

“Yes. Many must climb to Heaven on their own. A friend is of use.”

“A friend.” Javert feels very dumb at the moment. “How could you possibly consider me a friend? After the fear I wrongly instilled in you, after the unjust accusations…”

Valjean shakes his head. “I did do the things you thought I did. I forgive you, and you should not dwell on actions so far in the past. What matters more is how you changed.” He rests a hand fully on Javert’s shoulder, and Javert almost pulls away in immediate shock; he cannot remember the last time he was touched beyond a simple tap or a fight. He eyes Valjean warily, but the man seems unbothered. “You have a consciousness. You do not deserve damnation.”

Do not deserve…?

Valjean is the quintessential good. If he says such a thing, it must be true.

The man removes his hand from Javert’s shoulder, and Javert sighs. “If you say it.”

“I do not just say it. It is true! Now come, we should be leaving now.”

Valjean starts to walk in a seemingly random direction, and Javert follows with dedication.

“It is not so soon after my death, but a year is still quite soon,” Javert begins as they climb a grassy knoll. “What happened to you?”

Valjean chuckles. “A direct question, is that not? I will answer it. My lovely daughter Cosette married, and I became consumed with grief.”

Javert has vocal cords now, and so he huffs for real. What an avoidable death. A horrible shame.

“I was not useful anymore. She was moving onto the next stage of her life, and foolishly, I could not survive it. She is happy though, with Marius. They just had their first child,” Valjean says with true happiness.

Javert has seen such things before. A heartsick man would cease functioning out of grief alone, refusing to eat or drink, and merely waste away. Then he would be evicted from his home because he would not pay rent. Javert winces.

“The boy survived? I was sure he had died,” Javert mutters.

“Hard to tell under the dirt and grime, I assume. He was cleaned up and a doctor was fetched. He is now well.”

“Ah. Good for him. Perhaps he still has my revolvers.”

“Your what?”

As they ascend, Javert tells him the tale.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not Christian and wasn't raised Christian, but I wanted to explore this in my own way. I love afterlife stories with these two!


End file.
